


The lexicon of lip and fingertip (defies translation)

by sleepymoon



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Embarrassment, Established Relationship, Humor, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Immortal Wives Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Language Barrier, M/M, Minor Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Poet Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Rated M Just To Be Safe, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28076529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepymoon/pseuds/sleepymoon
Summary: Has anyone ever died from embarrassment alone, in the history of mankind? If the answer is no, Nicolò feels like he's about to set a precedent. Except that instead of staying dead, he will definitely come back to life just so he can strangle Yusuf with his bare hands.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 18
Kudos: 307





	The lexicon of lip and fingertip (defies translation)

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [VeraBAdler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeraBAdler) for looking this over <3

Nicolò is busying himself with checking the harness of his horse, making sure it's tied properly, when Yusuf sidles up next to him with an easy, open smile.

Just a decade before, Nicolò would have drawn his sword against this man if he had dared to step this close, but those times are now so far behind them they feel like they belong to an entirely different lifetime. And they do, in a sense.

Yusuf has just thanked the old man who had agreed to grant them hospitality in his home for the night. Slipping more coins than they can probably spare into his bony hands, he was speaking with him in hushed tones in his native tongue. Nicolò could only make out a few scattered words here and there, the basic ones. Thank you, peace be with you, goodbye.

When they met, Yusuf already spoke a bit of Nicolò's dialect thanks to his merchant profession and his many travels; he was also fluent in both Greek and the Frankish tongue, on top of his own mother language, and he was able to pick up a great deal more of it in very little time.

Nicolò found himself impressed by his natural skill and envious of it in equal measure.

Nicolò had learned Latin in his years of clerical studies, and he has also mastered enough Greek to be able to carry a conversation rather smoothly, but he's certainly struggling with learning Arabic.

To communicate between the two of them, they have settled for a weird mix of Greek, Genovese, and Arabic, often switching from one language to another when they don't manage to get the meaning across as easily as they'd like to.

"A gift for you," Yusuf tells him, offering something up.

Nicolò takes the folded page, opens it, and then looks up again at his lover. This man, who means more to Nicolò than life itself, whose gentle smile is more lethal, cuts deeper into his heart than any sword ever could.

"It's in Arabic," he feels the need to point out. Yusuf only nods, that same smile playing at his lips. "I can't read it. You know I still don't speak your language very well, and I can read it even less."

Yusuf hums in reply, pretending to consider the matter at hand. "Still, it's a gift from my heart to your heart. It would be impolite to refuse it."

Nicolò looks down at the page again. No one else has ever written him a love letter before, and the first one he receives he's unable to read, but it's such a sincere, thoughtful token of affection that it makes him grin in return.

"Will you tell me what it says?" he asks, eagerly.

"All in good time, habibi. All in good time," Yusuf replies, and cups Nicolò's face in both his hands to pull him forward into a brief, chaste kiss. "Let's go. We have a long day ahead of us."

In good time, it turns out, is a very long time.

Nicolò tries to coddle Yusuf into teaching him more, but most of their lessons end up with Yusuf trying and failing not to laugh at Nicolò's atrocious pronunciation, and with Nicolò in turn getting frustrated and threatening to give up entirely.

This means that his progress is painfully slow, despite his continuous efforts, and Yusuf's letter remains unread inside his saddle bag with his few other earthly possessions. They keep traveling East together, sometimes stopping in a place only a fortnight, sometimes entire months. They sleep in each other's arms at night whenever it is safe to do so, and they dream of the same two women over and over, knowing that for some reason they share their inexplicable plight and they're also wandering the continent, looking for them, using the echoes of their dreams to guide them.

In the end, it takes them almost six years to finally meet Andromache and Quynh, and when they do the four of them resolve to mostly stick to Greek, which is the only language they share that they all speak fairly well.

One night, many full moons later, as he's sitting with Andromache and Quynh in front of the camp fire they lit, Nicolò tentatively reaches for the folded parchment in the hidden pocket of his bag, and in a sudden bout of courage, he asks, "Can either of you read Arabic?"

Part of him doesn't want to share Yusuf's poetry, his tender endearments, with anyone else, but he's been burning with the need to know for so long that he's simply done waiting. He would never ask this of a stranger, but these two women are his sisters in all ways except for blood, and he trusts them implicitly.

"We're both fluent enough. Why?"

Andromache lifts an eyebrow but she takes Nicolò's proffered page.

Quynh is pressed tight against her side, reading the text over her shoulder.

Nicolò doesn't know what he's expecting, exactly, but certainly it isn't the loud bark of laughter from Quynh, quickly muffled by both her hands covering her mouth, nor Andromache's eyebrows climbing even higher up her forehead. This is immediately followed by their fearless leader reaching for the flask of red wine at her feet and chugging down most of it.

Quynh gives up trying to hold in her laughing fit and she half-falls on top of Andromache's lap, shaking with high-pitched guffaws. Nicolò watches these reactions with equal parts confusion, astonishment, and a sense of growing dread. What in God's name had Yusuf's been writing to justify such an outburst? Is it not a love letter, after all?

"What is it?" he asks, urgently. His hands are itching to yank the parchment back and hide it away forever.

Andromache levels him with a flat look. "Niki, you know I love you very much, but I'm not going to read you this filth out loud. By the Goddess, I need to get drunk."

Nicolò rears back in shock. "Filth?! What do you mean, filth?"

Right then, Quynh lifts her head from Andromache's lap and grabs at the page with viper-like reflexes before Andromache is able to hand it back.

"Wait! Wait!" she cries, gasping for breath in between her bouts of howling laughter. "There's a bit here that's a little more innocent than the rest. It says, right here," she clears her throat, pointing at the line with her forefinger while Andromache shakes her head fondly at the display.

"It says how he wants to spend the next century with his head buried between your thighs, until he either suffocates or his tongue falls off, and how he would gladly do so, for your taste is as addictive, as savory as the sweetest necta-"

She stops mid-word as Nicolò tears the parchment from her grasp, pleading her for dear life to stop talking. Quynh falls back against Andromache's side, still snickering.

Has anyone ever died from embarrassment alone, in the history of mankind? If the answer is no, Nicolò feels like he's about to set a precedent. Except that instead of staying dead, he will definitely come back to life just so he can strangle Yusuf with his bare hands.

His cheeks are burning as hot as if someone had shoved him face-first into the fire. He knows what that feels like from first-hand experience, and this seems remarkably similar.

That's when Yusuf comes strolling back into their camp, carrying more woods for the night in his arms and whistling a merry tune to himself.

He stops short when he meets Nicolò's murderous gaze, pinning him to the spot.

"Yusuf Al-Kaysani," Nicolò says, baring his teeth.

"Yes, habibi?" he calls back hesitantly.

"You are a dead man."

*

"It was something private!" Yusuf would still be crying a few good hours later. "You were not supposed to share it with anyone else!"

"Non provarci nemmeno. E' tutta colpa tua!" Nicolò snipes back, irritation making him slip back into his mother tongue. "You write me poetry in a language I can't read, and then you refuse to teach me properly! Which leads to me making a fool of myself with our dearest friends."

"I will teach you, habibi," Yusuf murmurs soothingly, trying to catch Nicolò by the elbow and draw him closer. "I will teach you, amor mio. Everything you want, I promise."

"I can't believe it! I was expecting you to compare my eyes to the summer sky, I don't know. Not- not that!" Nicolò groans, covering his flaming face with his hands, but when Yusuf's arms circle his waist and pull him back against his chest, they're met with much less resistance than they probably deserve.

"I wouldn't do that, my heart, for the sky would only pale in comparison," Yusuf croons into his ear. "I remember when I wrote it, you know? It was the day after we shared our bodies for the first time. You had awakened such a passion in me, that I simply had to pour it somewhere. I still maintain it's one of my finest works. I felt very inspired."

Nicolò is silent for a long time, but then he shifts his stance, pressing closer.

"Will you read it to me?" he asks, a soft hitch in his breath.

Yusuf chuckles deeply, pressing his mouth to Nicolò's flushed ear. "Sei sicuro?"

"Of course I'm sure, you insufferable bastard."

"You say the sweetest things, cuor mio."

Nicolò laughs, unable to help it, but is quick to wiggle out of his lover's arms when Yusuf starts pressing a row of scorching kisses down his neck.

"Wait. No, my love. You're not allowed to do that anymore," he informs him.

At this, Yusuf's eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise. "Oh? I'm not?"

Nicolò shakes his head. "No, not until I can speak Arabic as well as you do."

Yusuf swallows noisily, eyes turning a little unfocused and wild. "You don't really mean it, Niki."

"But I do. Perhaps this way you will apply yourself to our lessons more diligently than you've done until now."

"You know, we both died of starvation twice. We had our guts carved out and our limbs severed. But this, this will be more painful."

Nicolò's lips curl up and he inches closer until he can whisper into Yusuf's ear. "The quicker you teach me, habibi, the quicker you get to hold me again."

*

Four months later, and Nicolò's progress with the language has been nothing short of extraordinary. Even his accent has much improved.

"I have some interesting news to share. Joe is kidnapping me," he informs his friends cheerfully on the second morning of the fifth month, and does so in perfect Arabic.

Andromache and Quynh share a pointed look, then they both lean to one side to watch Yusuf, who's standing a few paces away and seems busy preparing their horses for travel.

"Honestly? I'm surprised you managed to resist this long," comments Andromache. "When should we expect you back?"

"Still to be determined," replies Yusuf for him, making Nicolò's grin grow larger as he walks away to join him. Yusuf hands him the reins of his horse and they both mount on their steeds.

"Have fun!" Quynh calls at their retreating backs, waving excitedly. Then she turns toward Andromache and adds with a wistful sigh, "Ah, young love. I miss them already."

Andromache does not roll her eyes, but Quynh knows her well enough to be able to say that she's strongly tempted to.

"They'll return before the end of the year. Come on, let's go back to bed. I'm sure I can find some ways to keep you entertained, in the meanwhile."

**Author's Note:**

> Non provarci nemmeno. E' tutta colpa tua : Don't even try. It's all your fault
> 
> Sei sicuro? : Are you sure?
> 
> Amor mio : My love
> 
> Cuor mio : My heart 
> 
> Habibi : My love / My darling
> 
>   
> 
> 
> I swear I actually wanted to write something serious and heartfelt and beautiful about Nicky and Joe starting out as enemies and then falling in love against all odds and realizing they're soulmates, but this is what I ended up with instead *facepalm* 
> 
> The title comes from the poem _Marriage of Many Years_ by Dana Gioia.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


End file.
